


Goodbye, Hello

by 13ways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Babygate (One Direction), Belfast, Canon Compliant, M/M, The X Factor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 04:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21238331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: Louis loves Harry, and Harry loves Louis. Not much can stand in the way.





	Goodbye, Hello

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys like what’s written here. Babygate is in this fic, it is canon compliant, and I had so much more planned, but this is it. I don’t know what the future holds.
> 
> One Direction was The Band. You all gave me a chance. Thank you. 
> 
> All my love, 13.

OCTOBER 20, 2015

“So, Louis, congratulations!” the reporter says. “You’re going to be a dad. How does it feel?”

“Thank you,” Louis nods, his face wiped blank. “It’s exciting, yeah, yeah.”

“Right?” the reporter pursues. “You’re excited?”

Louis fixes an arctic gaze on the reporter. “‘M buzzin’.”

With nothing more to say, Louis smiles with his lips sealed shut. The interviewer motions to his cameraman to cut the taping.

Louis unclips his microphone and untangles himself, nods at the reporter once more, and then excuses himself to use the toilet. The next reporter is waiting in the wings with her clutch of equipment and notebook. From the corner of his eye, Louis catches a glimpse of the cameraman stretching his arms, barely suppressing a yawn.

_Me too, lad. Me too._

In the hallway, he flips a cigarette out of his pocket and tucks it into the corner of his mouth. It’s always grand, this bitterness at the fag’s end. The chewy bits. It feels familiar and inviting, as if he’d been smoking for centuries. He licks the fibrous tip.

He digs into the front pocket of his skinny jeans for the lighter. His left eye winks closed when he sees the petal pink color through his fingers, bringing back the memory. Harry had pinched it from the Honey restaurant, at the Hotel Gotham in Manchester, just a few weeks ago. “Honey” is etched in gold in a retro, bold, 1970’s font. It was why Harry had stolen it. For his honey.

Harry loves the tripped-out ‘70’s: scruff and sweat in bell-bottoms and velvet brocade vests. He likes the sexy mess, the messy sex. He likes the greasy long strands of hair marinating in smoke. He likes the skinny girls, their tiny breasts bouncing in crocheted halter tops. He likes the scratchy records that make the decade sound like Polaroids. He likes the confused dirty people at music festivals, wandering beneath the torch lights.

And Louis?

He sucks in a long drag, sluices the smoke out like a genie from his lungs. Smoking makes him simultaneously relaxed and excited. He’s calm now, and hyped. Battle-ready.

Louis likes Harry. Simple as that. Full stop.

The Honey. They had finally arrived in England, the OTRA tour was winding down, their hiatus had been announced. They were home.

•••••

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

The restaurant’s chandeliers cast a diffuse light, brightening Harry’s pale skin, softening the contours of his taut, angular face. Harry had booked the room because of the antique Olivetti typewriters, hung in a whimsical matrix up and down one wall.

Louis loves when Harry goes all romantic. It’s sweet and silly, like when they were kids, but also extravagant and explosive as a missile, detonating in Louis’ already conquered heart.

The waiter sets down their first course— l’amuse bouche, on the house— tiny thimbles of rhubarb custard dressed with chartreuse alfalfa sprouts. It is all of an English springtime in a bite.

Louis wrinkles his nose. Thing is, Louis doesn’t like lies, and he really doesn’t care for veggies disguised as dessert— too sneaky. He flicks the sprouts with two fingers, watching them bobble. He judges the waiter, who is setting down goat cheese simmered in sweet tomato confit, toasted baguette rounds and violet-infused butter.

Louis shoots a quick glance at Harry, tapping his right index and middle fingers twice, unconsciously showing his craving for a cigarette. Harry immediately recognizes it, tips his chin up so Louis notices, and clears his throat for the waiter.

“Erm, sorry, mate, could I— ?” Harry blinks slowly, innocently, looking up at the waiter.

“Sir?” The waiter halts his hands.

Louis watches it all unfold— the lure, the curiosity, the trap being set. The pull Harry Styles has over his victims.

”I’m such an idiot,” Harry chuckles. “I’ve forgotten to bring a lighter. Would you have one I can borrow?”

Louis remembers the “No Smoking” sign he passed on the way to their private dining room. His eyes flick from Harry to the waiter and back again, lips curling up with amusement. A swirling candle flame dances between them. Louis realizes that a fire already exists in this space, ready to light his cigarette. There was no need to ask for a lighter. He leans back in his chair, ready to be entertained. Can Harry pull this off?

Under the table, Louis feels Harry’s foot kick him. A socked toe feels its way up, caressing his ankle.

“Sir, the restaurant— that is, we— ” The waiter fumbles awkwardly. Their policy is No Smoking. End of. One cigarette breaks the rule for everyone. The waiter knows that, and he knows they know that.

“Nevermind. I’m a bother,” Harry interrupts, smooth as fondant. “Actually,” he laughs, “you’re saving my life. I’ve been trying to quit for ages. These days I try to stick to weed, you know what I mean?”

The waiter fidgets, his composure breaking. “I guess so, sir. Yes, sir.”

Harry nods slightly toward Louis. “A smoke at dinner is my only luxury. This one knows how bad I am. Right, Lou?”

“Oh,” Louis chuckles. “Trust me. He’s the worst.”

Harry’s foot tickles Louis. “I’m terrible, really. A spoiled brat.” His consonants sounds like twigs snapping.

“Listen, lad, if he doesn’t get what he wants,” Louis says, “we’ll be here for hours. You wouldn’t want that, I’m sure. He’ll whine like a fucking tomcat in bed all night. Bloody nuisance.”

“Oh dear,” the waiter stammers, glancing at Louis.

“I’m not that bad,” Harry says, shrugging. ”Besides, who hasn’t been horny? Sex is a fundamental human need.”

“Is it, though?” Louis asks.

Harry chuckles. “Can’t believe I’m making all this fuss.”

Louis rolls his eyes fondly. “Over a cigarette, Harry. Grow up, for God’s sakes.”

“In that case, I’m sure— I can, I will locate one, uh— Mr. Styles. Mr. Toml— “ He meets Louis’ crystalline gaze, and abruptly stops talking. Louis’ eyes are twinkling sapphire blue. He sees Harry drop his napkin and reach across to hold Louis’ hand.

“Joseph.” Harry gazes at him, drawing out the slow, thick syllables of the waiter’s name. “May I call you Joseph? Well, I’m just Harry. And this is just Louis. You can say no, Joseph. Treat us like normal people. But you’d be making Louis miserable.” His thumb dwarves Louis’ knuckles with its enormity. “He’s going to suffer enough tonight as it is, aren’t you, darling?” Harry winks. “Might have to give you a spanking.”

“I’m very happy to serve— to be of s—,” Joseph looks askance, fingers gripping his service towel.

Harry clasps Louis hand tightly, his foot tickling Louis’.

“Be a sub— No! That’s not what I mean!” Joseph stammers. “Your manserv— your waiter!” He pauses, clears his head and swallows, cheeks flushing crimson. He nods, and then turns and flees, as fast as his feet can take him.

“Cheers,” Harry calls after him.

Harry and Louis watch his retreating back, Harry snorting triumphantly, Louis slowly smirking.

“You’re unbelievable.” Louis’ voice is filled with a grudging admiration.

Harry frowns, deepening his dimple. “What did I do?” He unfolds his linen napkin and lays it across his lap. “I merely made a simple request. For you.”

Louis looks down at his own knuckles, fingers tapered and restless.

“You know very well what you do to people, H.”

“Do I?” Harry stares back and grins, his cheeks high and eyes playful. “What’s that?”

Louis rearranges the napkin in his lap. “You know.”

Harry laughs out loud. “Well, you do it, too.” Louis raises an eyebrow. “C’mon! You flirt.”

“But I’m not Harry Styles,” Louis says.

Under Louis’ cool gaze, Harry feels a warmth rise under his collar. After all these years, a single look from Louis can still make him feel naked. He pinks up, shakes his hair out, and tucks the longer tresses behind his ear.

Meanwhile, Louis is silently and firmly pushing his custard away. Harry clucks his disapproval.

“Not even going to try it?”

“No, mate.” Louis exhales sharply. “Don’t like sprouts, do I?”

“Babe.”

Harry raises his right hand to touch the corner of Louis’ mouth. Louis automatically turns his cheek so Harry can trace the vermilion outline of his lips. He nudges with patient pressure until Louis opens his mouth, allowing a finger to enter. He tastes the salt and traces of champagne on Harry’s fingertips.

Louis could try to resist, but he won’t. He’ll always let Harry in. Louis’ eyes never disengage, their brilliance locked on Harry’s steady, satisfied smile. They are always playing the game, and perhaps that is their downfall.

“Mm,” Harry cajoles.

Warmth shoots down Louis’ thigh, making him shift. Harry disengages and dips his fingers up to the first joint into the pink custard, scooping up a delicate, quivering morsel. The rich cream trembles and slides on his fingertips, scented like the bracing English spring air.

“Open up, Lou.”

Harry nudges in. Louis closes his mouth around Harry’s fingers, sucking the custard off Harry’s fingertips, which go deeper, but not enough to be uncomfortable. As he swallows, Louis feels a lurch in his guts.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies hoarsely. The warmth travels up his thighs and settles right in between. Louis turns his face away.

Louis knows that Harry will always have this control over mere humans, his sexual magnetism like ancient Anglo-Saxon artillery, arrows shooting doubts away over whether people— girls, boys, young, old— feels about him in the least ambiguous way.

Thinking it over, most people would realize… their defenses lightly falling away… their senses slowly waking, like warm caramel in the mouth, their minds fraying at the edges, feeling insane.

No.

No.

Not a chance.

Yes. Yes. Yes yes _yes._

They do. They definitely like him. Adult men, falling for him as easily as those teen girls crying in queues. Harry is a crepuscular sort of magic, the glowering madness of sexual desire overtaking all else. And they’d realize that this man, this man-boy, is snaking his way through their vulnerable, liquid souls.

They want him. They long for him. They long to be wanted by him.

Harry knows it, too; he senses their eyes darting away with self-reproach, only to furtively, helplessly turn back. They rest on him, memorize his shape, internalize the light and shadows around him. They sink into his crevices and drown in his dimples. They stare mesmerized at his taut lean frame, his beauty suspended somewhere between human and divine.

He also knows that Louis knows. They’re both very aware.

Nick Grimshaw calls it his Magic Sex Lasso. Harry’s charm race across rooms wherever his eyes land; he never even has to try. It’s funny, really, at odds with Harry’s off-kilter, pun-loving, wobbly-gangly personality. He captures people like a taboo.

And. They fall.

Harry’s dark, unrestrained attractiveness makes him wary. Ever since he was a teen, it made men crumble helplessly before him, reduced women to incoherent yelling in his face. His charm is so potent, and comes so easily to him, that he tries to chain it like a caged beast, barely controlling its turbulence.

If he thinks about it too hard, Harry starts to feel surreal, as if he were splitting into two things, one of which wasn’t real.

Louis can see all of this in Harry’s smirk, both his love of attention, of being seen and admired and lusted after, and his melancholy, of being chased and observed, judged, toyed with, skewered. He can see the popcorn-crunching crowd, crassly tapping on the zoo glass to make Mr. Harry Styles do something. Then they would laugh. They would judge. They would watch Harry falling off the high wire… where Louis is waiting to catch him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Louis can see other, even more famous celebrities being drawn to Harry, too. He’s a riddle that everyone wants to solve.They lean toward him now, rather than the other way around— trying to catch a reflection of the brightest flame.

At the beginning, it was only blonde, leggy models who were always around him, British celebs, and Taylor. Now it’s Everyone. Fashion designers and musicians. Movie directors and producers. Serious actors. Reality and social media stars. Sports icons. Being with Harry makes them all shinier.

Louis’ giggly, awkwardly gangly mate has grown up to be Achilles— a beautiful thing of mythical proportions. People feel the thrill of living when they’re with Harry. But he isn’t a god; he is human. He is Louis’ human.

Harry isn’t a child anymore, and neither is Louis. They had lost their childhood.

“Hey.” Harry touches his pinky to the back of Louis’ hand, tracing a thin line. “Tomlinson. Come back to me. Where are you?”

Louis laces his fingers through Harry’s hand, absentmindedly glazing over Harry’s tortuous veins. The fabric tie on his wrist brush against Louis. Warmed by the circulation of Harry’s middle finger, the hard metal of his PEACE ring etch into Louis’ skin.

Louis knows this ring. Pretty well.

“Sorry.” His thumb grazes over Harry’s, rubbing the contours he knew by memory.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, good.” Harry is watching him with an unsettled curiosity. Louis returns the look steadily, then quirks a smile. “No worries, love.”

Harry says nothing, but keeps observing in his feline way.

Louis insists, somewhat flustered, “I’m alright. Stop worrying, you old hen.”

Harry nods. Louis’ being good holds them together. It is always Louis who cools his fever, Louis who calms his hunger. If Harry is dark magic, then Louis is the entire world.

The waiter’s footsteps clip back into the room. He is gripping a pink cigarette lighter tightly in his right hand, the word Honey engraved on it in warm gold. It belonged to the girlfriend of the restaurant’s owner, a famous socialite who had received the gift on the restaurant’s fifth anniversary.

“Mr. Styles,” he says, slightly breathless. “I have your lighter. Compliments of Ms. Emily Osborne.”

“Oh, beautiful,” Harry’s eyes sparkle, turning the lighter over in his large hand. “Louis, look, a lighter for us. It even has your nickname on it.” He tosses the lighter over to Louis, who catches it deftly in midair, with three fingers.

•••••

_The way you make me feel_  
_ You really turn me on_  
_ You knock me off of my feet_  
_ My lonely days are gone_

-Michael Jackson

SUMMER, 2010

In the swimming pool, Liam’s tossing a tri-colored beach ball to Zayn, who is lounging on a giant yellow float and pretending not to take notice. The ball bounces harmlessly into water. The sun blazed overhead, canting at a mid-afternoon angle.

They are at Harry’s stepdad’s bungalow, winding down after rehearsals. It has been a long day of choosing different tunes for The X Factor.

The boys have just been put together as a band. In the few days since they’ve been at the bungalow “rehearsing,” none of them have slept very much at all. They are all pieces of tinder. It doesn’t take much to light them up.

Truth is, there is, in fact, not very much rehearsing going on. In between songs they’re supposedly singing, the boys blab and confess their life stories and sing fragments of school musicals to each other, pick up and drop songs pitched at them, try out combinations of harmonies, and realize their voices are too untrained and rough to sound like they belong together. They’re a little irritated, but also excited as hell. They’re five cats wandering in an unfamiliar jungle, one gangly puss following another.

“Liam! Bro! Over here!” In the pool, Niall waves his arms, squawking for attention.

Liam’s waiting for Zayn to retrieve the ball. When Zayn ignores it, Liam swims over to grab it himself. His large hand palms the shiny surface and sucks it up.

“Hey Lewis!” Liam shouts, turning his body. “Heads up!” He drills the beach ball, with all its aerodynamic ennui, toward the older boy.

The ball flicks off the side of Louis’ chaise lounge. He coolly glances at it, and then swings his legs over in one fluid motion and stands up.

“Gonna go find a drink,” Louis croaks out. He stretches his arms to the sides and arches his back, the thin swim trunks accentuating his acrobatic curves. ”Thirsty.”

With ease, he kick-passes the ball back into the pool. In what he considers a subtle move, Louis cranes his head to catch Harry’s eyes, quickly swiping a tongue over his lips.

Yawning theatrically, Louis announces, “Guess I’ll be in the kitchen.”

The boys watch Louis leave, and then watch Harry fix his gaze on Louis’ backside, steadfastly following him through the patio door. Zayn exhales a soft laugh, embarrassed for them.

Harry rakes a hand through his sun-streaked hair, bites his thumbnail, and rubs his thighs up and down, as if trying to keep his legs still— all to no avail. His legs shake as he looks down, hands gripping his legs tightly. Within ten seconds of Louis’ leaving, Harry is already standing up.

“Relax, bro,” Zayn teases languidly, a lilt to his young huskiness. “You’ve got time. He hasn’t even had a chance to get undressed.” There’s no guarantee Zayn won’t burst out laughing.

Harry turns around, sweaty swim trunks stuck to his skinny legs and small behind. He smooths his hands down his chest, and then flings his arms apart, as if burned by his own touch. He steals a glance at the house, and then decides to go for it.

“What? No,” he protests. “I was gonna go— uh— have a wee.”

“Sure,” Zayn laughs, gesturing with his thumb. “Whatever. Go wild, man.”

Barely stifling a giggle, Niall adds, “Yeah, go wild in yer own toilet, Harry.”

“The Adventures of Harry Styles,” Zayn smirks. “It’s always more fun when there’s more than one. Don’t sweat it, bro.” 

“More than one?” Liam asks. “Who else is going to the toilet then?” Niall bursts out cackling, a hand covering his mouth and body shaking. “I thought your stepdad’s bungalow only had two bathrooms, Harry. Are we all going to the toilet together?”

“God, Liam!” Niall yells. ”Three’s a crowd, you knob.” 

Liam’s confusion makes Zayn fucking lose it. He pushes water in Liam’s direction to shut him up, which starts a water fight in the pool, creating a perfect opportunity for Harry to get away.

“H!” Zayn yells after him. “Safety first, you know what I’m saying! Always use protection! Don’t know where he’s been, yeah?”

Ignoring him, Harry walks quickly into the house, straight toward the kitchen. An opened can of Coke sits on the counter, condensation beading on its metallic surface. The house hums with low creaks and shifts, but is otherwise quiet. The chilled air prickles Harry’s skin.

His face still radiating heat from the sun and embarrassment, Harry imagines how splotchy red it probably looks. He wraps his hand around the Coke. The coldness feels good, steadying. It’s still mostly full.

He raises the can, takes a big gulp, then rests it against his burning cheeks.

The kitchen opens to a shaded hallway, with no indication which way Louis might have gone.

Harry starts down the halls and calls out softly, in case his parents should walk in. They aren’t supposed to be by for another couple of hours, but one never knows. They’re bringing Chinese take-away tonight.

“Louis? Where are you?” No answer. Harry nudges open the door to the hallway washroom. As he expects, it is dark and empty. The wooden floors dip and creak softly as he walks.

At the end of the long hallway, Harry sees the closed door to the bedroom that he shares with Louis. No light leaks through from the bottom, but the door is firmly shut, where it is usually left half open. Taking a breath, Harry twists the knob and pushes in.

At first, he can see nothing in the darkened room. Then he hears something— a chirpy inhalation, soft and tight. The sound comes from the twin bed in the corner of the room, where Louis lies under the bed covers. As Harry watches, he is unable to tear away, even though he knows it’s probably private and he shouldn’t be here.

It sounds almost like Louis’ crying. But Harry isn’t mistaken, is he? Louis wants him here? Louis had looked so pointedly at him, so inviting and sly. Now Harry’s head swims with contradictions. His confidence wobbles and ebbs, and everything swims in the shadowy room.

Instinctually, his hands feels for the smooth, cold doorknob behind himself and push back to lock it. It clicks. For a moment, Harry merely watches and listens, not able to make out much in the dark. Then he hears it— a high-pitched groan, more of pleasure than of pain. Harry knows this sound. He’s made it himself tons of times.

“Oh. Mmn. God.”

Unable to hold back, Harry walks quietly over to stand next to the bed. He hears the throttled air vibrating through Louis’ lovely throat, making that uncontrolled, animal noise, while his hands move rhythmically under the covers. There’s no way Louis didn’t hear him just now, right? He had to know Harry was in the room. Then he’s doing this on purpose. Louis must want Harry to see him.

Working against self-restraint, Harry reaches out to touch Louis’ shoulders. Then everything stops.

Louis slowly turns onto his back and pushes the bedsheets off his face. His hair flies down his forehead; he puffs it away with a breath, an unfocused look on his flushed face. His forehead is shiny with sweat. His pupils are so large, they nearly obliterate his dark blue irises. His cheeks have a high, magenta glow. His naked, tanned shoulders are tantalizingly exposed underneath; Harry feels heat radiating from them. The bedcover over his groin is unambiguously tented, straight up, draped like the peak of a small mountain.

“Hiya, Haz,” he whispers, a wispy smile on his face. “What took you so long?”

Harry bites his bottom lip. His eyes unfocus and refocus.

Then, like an newborn leopard, Harry is on Louis, his body flopping next to Louis’ on the narrow bed, a hand holding Louis’ face still so he can kiss him, if Louis wants him to…if… He can’t think, his head full of Louis’ scent, his soft curves, his voice, his impossibly cruel flirting, the bristle of his five-o’clock shadow telling Harry that this is a boy— a beautiful, fit, older boy— in his house— who wants to kiss him, and cuddle, and touch him and...

The bounce of the bed turns Louis toward him, his covered cock accidentally brushing against Harry’s belly. Louis is hard and flushed, and Harry promptly forgets how to kiss. He can’t recall a thing. Lips. Tongue. They’re barely attached to him.

Kissing girls has always been so nice. He is Cool Harry with the girls. They’re soft and cute, and it’s always easy. No pressure. They love him, coo and giggle for him.

This… this isn’t nice. This is slow, torturous, hot, and not good. _No..._

It is fucking… _terrible… _and quite possibly, _fantastic_. His stomach tightens.

With a grin, Louis licks his lips, and turns fully toward Harry, his hard cock on Harry’s tummy. His hand circles Harry’s neck and his fingers entwine into Harry’s long curls.

“Silly fool,” he whispers. “Silly, silly poppet.”

Harry grins. Their lips inch together in slow motion, a thrill rocketing down both their bodies. Harry recklessly pushes his lips forward, not caring whether it is any good. Louis’ mouth tastes like sweetness and chlorine, like a handful of perfect boy. His eyelashes are palm fronds, prairie grass, Drew Barrymore. As their kiss deepens, Louis draws Harry in, licking his lips gently to open them. And Harry lets him, feels his tongue play around his teeth, swirling and wrestling with his own tongue, a wonderful feeling. He thickens down below, unable to control his sixteen-year-old body, but also unafraid, because it’s Louis. He trusts Louis.

When Louis’ fingers get tangled and pull Harry’s hair, Harry moans out loud, thrusting his groin awkwardly against Louis.

“Love,” Louis asks. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry exhales, his voice cracking. He thrusts up lightly, once more, on purpose this time. “Do it— ungh— do it again.”

Louis presses his lips to Harry’s neck and inhales, kissing him with a small suck and bite, and slowly pulling his hair taut. Harry rears his head back with a loud groan, a drawn-out howl of new and raw pleasure.

“Have I hurt you?” Louis asks.

“Ugnnnn,” Harry moans. “No. Feels so good.”

His mouth digs itself into Louis’ jaw, spit sliding down his chin. Louis sucks harder on his neck, biting and licking his skin. It would cause the first of many love bites, bruises that are hard to cover up with stage makeup, taking days to turn blue, then amber, then eventually fade. But right now, a lightning cord connects Harry’s neck to his pelvis, which he is pushing at Louis with more fervor and energy each second. He’s making helpless, strange noises, and Louis answers him with deep, rapid, warm breaths. Louis tastes so good, feels so right next to him. Their bodies are sweat-covered, and he can feel his heartbeats sinking into Louis’ chest, Louis’ heart pounding back. At this rate, Harry is going to come soon in his swim trunks. Louis, with more experience, puts a hand up on Harry’s chest.

“Hey, Harry,” Louis says softly. “Hold on.”

They separate. Harry’s mouth remains open, huffing hard. He looks at Louis’ angular, young beauty as if seeing him for the first time. He can’t understand why they haven’t done this earlier. It all feels so right and so good— fantastic, really. Louis has brought him to the brink faster than any girl ever did. He’s made to do this, to be with a boy. It feels right. He finally feels— fine, in his element, with the right person. Louis’ hand strays to the bedcover, and slowly he begins to peel it away. Harry watches the trembling of his chin, wanting to reassure him, but also wanting what was coming, wanting it with a big, scary intensity.

The bedcover lifts like a curtain. Louis has already shaken his swim trunks off one leg, so that it hangs loosely around his left calf, encircling it like an anklet. His uncut cock sticks out at a stiff angle from a small mound of curly, dark cinnamon-colored pubic hair. A paler shade of skin lies underneath the hair, pinker than his tanned and muscular legs. The thought crosses Harry’s mind that he wants to smell and taste Louis, but right then, he’s paralyzed.

“Oh wow.”

“Tell me if it’s okay,” Louis says, not looking at him. “Please? I need to know.”

Louis would smell so good down there, Harry thinks, smell clean and nice, like Louis. It makes him hitch his breath, his dick twitching in his own swim trunks, getting harder and stretching out the thin fabric.

“Harry,” Louis says. “I’m serious. If you don’t think…”

“It’s definitely okay,” Harry rushes in. “More than okay. I... it’s…why I followed you in here.”

Louis’ shoulder is hunched on one side, and his right palm rests next to him. He turns it up, beckoning to Harry.

“Oh,” Louis says, his expression softening. “Oh, we’re good then.”

Harry laughs, his hand stroking Louis’ cheek. “Yeah, good.”

Louis huffs a small, restrained laugh. “I was a bit worried.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Why?”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t want you to think I was a pervert, or, like… Didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Louis.” Harry scoots closer, so he is practically on top of Louis. “Why would you say that? Have I ever?”

“Not you.” Louis’ voice is as small as a sparrow, his eyes staring at nothing. “But, you know. Others.”

“Like Zayn?” Harry says. “Or Niall? I’ll have a word— ”

“No, not them.” Louis shifts awkwardly. “They’re alright. The boys don’t know, I don’t think. I mean, like, I don’t think that they’d care.” Harry thinks, oh they know alright. Louis continues, “But there have been other people, you know what I mean. At school and outside of it.”

Harry brings his face to within centimeters of Louis’, their noses practically touching. Louis is still looking away, his body unmoving, though he seems to be vibrating with a nervous energy that whittles him down. Louis chews the inside of his cheek, hoping Harry won’t notice, but of course Harry noticed.

With one hand, Harry gently tips Louis’ chin up.

“I don’t care about others.” He looks into Louis’ eyes. “The others who hurt you— can take a flying fuck off a high roof.”

“Harry Styles,” Louis mock-scolds him.

“I only care about you,” Harry says. “I mean it.”

Louis’ face brightens into a relieved smile. His eyes clear like patches of sky above clouds.

Harry‘s eyes widen. “Now, I want a kiss.”

Louis laughs out loud. Squirming against Harry, he brings his lips to touch Harry’s tentatively, and kisses him.

They kiss slowly and happily, as only two people who really like each other can. Harry leans into the kiss, nudging his lips apart, wanting to retrace that sweet, delicious softness in the back of Louis’ mouth. The way Louis clings to him gives him a special feeling that he can’t explain. He wants to make it alright, but also make it good, perfect. Harry pushes himself deeper into Louis’ space, testing whether it is acceptable. His mouths the low ridge of Louis’ jaw, the stiff afternoon stubbles scratching his lips. It’s funny how rough the whiskers feel, when Louis is so soft, so loose and sweet. His skin glows like a peach under the warm covers, smelling of coconut sunscreen. Harry feels vertiginous suddenly, his sense of gravity gone. He wants to slide into Louis’ sphere, wants to slide around in his world.

“Lou,” he whispers. “I really want to touch you. Will you let me?” He points at Louis’ chest, and then to emphasize his point, his hand strays to Louis’ waist where it curves inward, trailing down. Louis shivers, his body jolting as if touched by electricity.

“Yeah?” Louis stutters. “I mean… it’s why we’re here, right?”

It is the first and only time Harry has ever been with a boy, even though he’d thought about it many times before. What is considered too much? Too rough? He can only judge by what he had done to himself, or with girls— which doesn’t seem exactly right. His hand strays down to graze Louis’ cock, its soft, velvety skin alive with heat. Harry lays his hand, palm down, on Louis’ belly, and feels the dent of his hip, his thumb naturally falling into the concavity. The skin rises over his tummy, warm and smooth, gently sloping down to the tender skin of the cock. The back of Harry’s hand traces the shaft upward to the tip. Meanwhile, Louis’ hands stay by his side, chaste and restrained.

“Hey, Lou…” Harry whispers into Louis’ neck, his hot body plastered firmly to Louis. “How are we doing?”

Louis lets out a strangled giggle. “Fine.”

“Do you wanna,” Harry flirts, “see what my cock looks like?”

“Uhhhh,” Louis sighs. He breathes around Harry’s temple, catching a strand of curls. He kisses the skin there, and follows the kisses down. “Am I going to be severely disappointed?”

“Hope not.” Harry giggles, unknotting his swim trunks and shrugging them off. Given how Harry loves being in the buff, he can practically do this blindfolded in five seconds. “Tada!”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to be impressed. “Holy fuck.”

Harry’s erection springs up between them like a cherry tree, its girth more than adequate in a sword fight. Louis swallows hard, his imagination running away with him, his eyes glazing over. To put it mildly, Harry is motherfucking super extra large.

“Tell me if I’m repulsive, ‘kay?” Harry has the audacity to wink at Louis, and then grazes his thumb over Louis’ nipple. Hearing Louis suck in his breath, Harry does it again, dragging it out to watch Louis squirm.

“Shut up.” Louis nipple stiffens up hard as a tack. His chest rises and falls into Harry’s hands. “Shut up shut up shut up.”

“You don’t like it?”

Louis holds Harry’s hand to stop him. “No, Hazza. I fucking love it.” Harry leans in to kiss him, and Louis stops his mouth with his other hand, to some puzzlement. “I just— before we go on, I need to ask you something.”

A wounded and impatient look comes over Harry.

“Harry,” Louis begins haltingly, then nods to his cock. “You’re the sexiest, cutest boy I’ve ever— I’m, like, I swear, about to come just from kissing you. But you’ve never been with a boy before. Am I right?” Harry reluctantly nods. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re not making me gay, Louis, if that’s what you think.”

Louis relaxes his grip, letting Harry’s hands go. “No, of course not.” He watches Harry tentatively. “I know that. That’s not what I meant. I— ”

“I want this,” Harry interrupts. “Louis, I wanna be with you.”

His pout is earnest and indignant. Louis gives him a smile. “Yeah. God. You’re so sweet.”

“Not sweet!” Harry’s growl makes Louis break down with fondness. He really is endearing. “Want to do all the bad things with you. To you. You’re only two years older than me, Lewis. Don’t you want to try stuff with me?”

“Listen to me. You were sitting by the pool today,“ Louis says. “With your golden boy tan, and your massive shoulders, your four nipples or whatnot, and your curls in such a mess.” Louis pauses. “Such a terrible mess. A fucking mess.” Louis glances at Harry before continuing. “You were fucking me up so bad. Honestly, I had to leave. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“You had to leave?” Harry quiets down, flattered by what he hears. “Because of me?”

“I kept thinking, what if he doesn’t feel the same way about me?” Louis continues. In response, Harry takes Louis’ face in his hand, stroking his cheek softly. “What if you don’t? And it made things bad between us? We’re in a band together, you and me.”

“Well, you needn’t worry.”

Louis brushes a strand out of Harry’s face. “Can’t help it. You do such things to me, Curly.”

“And if I didn’t like you?” Louis shifts to look straight into Harry’s face. “Then what?”

“Then I’d make it end, of course.” Louis replies. “And live with it. Wouldn’t be the first time I crushed on someone who didn’t like me back.” Harry’s staring intently. “Unrequited gay love is more likely than you think, Harold.”

“You’re lying. Who wouldn’t like you back?” Harry bites his lip. He puts his hand low on Louis’ belly, palm out, and gives it a rub. “Lou, do you… do you ever wank off thinking about me?”

Louis acts shocked. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me.” Harry flutters his lashes. “For real.”

“No, never.” Louis turns bright crimson. “That is one-hundred-percent, private information.”

“Pleeease?” Harry snuggles up to him, his lips inches away.

“Seriously! I’d never admit to that.”

Harry taps on Louis’ cock so it swings back and forth. “Please say yes, Boo. You think about me. Like just then, before I came into the room. Were you?”

“Noooo,” Louis winces, his cock twitching. “I’m not gonna say. Stop it.” He shoves Harry‘s hand away. “I’m a horny teenager. I get off sometimes. So what? Get away.” He watches his own cock perk up like an alien creature.

“Really!” Harry grins with satisfaction. “What do you think about?”

“‘M not telling!” Louis tries to push him away. “No more information. Go away.”

Harry is sixteen, and doing it all for the first time. With someone he likes. With Louis, his best mate.

“You,” Harry chides affectionately, “are a naughty boy, Tomlinson. You fantasize about me. In this house. While sleeping in the same room as me.” He leans down to kiss Louis’ nose, his belly grazing Louis’ cock. “Bet you wanted to get in bed with me! You’re one of those bad boys, aren’t you?”

Between them, Harry feels Louis’ cock twitch hard, and then wetness spurting out at the tip. Harry shivers thinking about what it could do, how it would look.

“Oh God, sorry,” Louis says, drawing back. “I didn’t mean to do that. Shit.”

Harry puts his hand on Louis’ lower back and pulls his waist in while inching himself forward, lining their hips up. His fingers trace Louis’ cock from the base up toward the head. A thumb plays with the precome that had squirted out, smearing it around the foreskin and around the hard disk of the glans. The cock surges in his hand, hard with anticipation.

Louis moans involuntarily, craning his head to the side, leaving an expanse of neck open. Harry slowly licks a wide swath of skin from the bottom to the top, as he starts to jerk Louis’ cock carefully.

“Alright?” he asks.

“Ah,” Louis voices. “Haz.”

Louis begins making the same sounds that he did at the beginning, the high-pitched “Oh”’s that make Harry want to get himself off, or do something to shoot off. He’s so hard and aroused himself, he can come just from watching Louis.

“Do you ever think about sucking each other off, Louis?” Harry asks.

“Hazza,” Louis moans. “Come on, God. Please don’t.”

Harry stops talking and jerks him faster, looser, taking care not to pull too hard. It’s different doing it to someone else. There is no way to tell how far along Louis is, but Harry can tell that he is into it, the way he’s opening his legs, his thighs tense with contractions, pelvis pumping in rhythm to Harry’s hand.

“I’m not gonna last,” Louis says, a palm stopping his hand. “Come here.”

Louis wraps a leg around Harry’s thighs and pulls him in. He lays his head on Harry’s shoulder, licking the skin there and leaving a small bite, as he begins gently thrusting against Harry. Harry moves himself against Louis, feeling Louis’s hips lock and stiffen, pushing forward. Louis kisses his shoulder again as they move in rhythm, friction doing most of the work, friction and pent-up desire. Harry moves faster and rubs harder, feeling the wetness between them, himself leaking a bit too. So warm and wet… Harry wants to slip his cock between Louis’ legs, to find his opening.

“Ungh.” Harry moans, thinking about sex. “I want to suck you off so bad.”

“God, babe.” Louis cries, hips pumping faster and harder. An animal groan comes out of Louis’ mouth. His legs part as he squirts into the space between them, cock twitching and waving. He moans and prays, curses. Harry moves off him, lying on his side, watching him spurt and dribble with fascination. He’s never made another guy come before, never heard another boy’s moans. It is brilliant. He wants this all the time. He wants to do this to Louis, in every way possible.

He wants to scoop Louis in and kiss him, and cuddle him, and kiss him again. Harry is so proud. Louis came so beautifully, so very good and sexy and perfect in every way. He’s muscular and athletic and smart and funny. He’s still moaning softly and calling to Harry, and it makes Harry feel even more tenderly toward him. I’m with a sex god! Harry wants to tell everyone. I had sex with Louis! I had sex with Louis!

Harry’s dick goes rock hard thinking about it, and he feels his tip dribble in tiny spasms. Somewhere in his mind, he worries that he’ll come like a beginner, right there. A hand strays toward Louis’ waist, almost but not quite touching him.

Louis’ fingers reach out and meet Harry’s, and pull his hand up to hold. Their hands lock comfortably, like friends, except— they’re no longer just friends. Harry’s heart quickens, but he brushes the feeling away.

“Harry,” Louis says finally. “You were wonderful.”

“So were you.”

Louis raises their locked hands and kisses Harry’s knuckles, one at a time, nudging them with the tip of his nose and rewarding them each with a soft kiss.

“I like you so much,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “Me too.”

Harry is waiting impatiently, young and eager for the right words, the ones he wants so much to hear, the ones he wants to say back to Louis.

Louis pauses, and finally says, “Haz, you— you’re so nice. You’re cute and fun and,” he gazes down, his blinking lashes masking his eyes, “a really kind person. I know this is new for you. And for me, too. I’ve never met anyone like you, really.” Louis stops himself and looks away, embarrassed. Harry follows his gaze hungrily, wanting him to say the words. Taking a deep breath, Louis starts again. “Anyway, it’s just... I never want you to do something you don’t want to do. To end up feeling something you wish you didn’t.”

“Something bad, you mean?” Harry leans closer, his breath on Louis’ face.

Louis shakes his head lightly. “Love, we’re in the same band.” He exhales. “Whether things are good or bad, we have to see each other every day.” Louis bites both lips hard, bringing blood to the surface. He casts his eyes down. “At least until The X Factor is done. And then, who knows?”

“Why does it matter?” Harry steals a kiss from Louis, then another, then another, a string of kisses, delicate and sweet. Absentmindedly, he traces an infinity loop over and over on Louis’ tummy as he squirms from ticklishness. “We’re with each other now.”

“You matter,” Louis answers finally, his voice slightly detached. “You don’t understand, Harry. You’re not just anyone.”

Harry tilts his head in question.

“You’re special,” Louis continues, “because you were born to be a star.”

Harry begins to protest, but Louis shushes him with an index finger on his lips. He pulls Harry close and gives him a reassuring kiss.

“You too, Lou,” Harry mumbles. “We’ll be there together. We’re going all the way.”

“You’re right,” Louis pulls away, marveling at Harry’s confidence. “We’ll see.”

“We will,” Harry answers, licking him and kissing him. Louis shifts his body up a quarter turn, and Harry puts his arms around Louis’ shoulder to let Louis be the little spoon. The tiny hairs on the back of Louis’ thighs tickle his legs. Louis’ well-toned, football-ready arse cheeks bounce firmly against Harry’s dick when they shift, giving him a strange feeling.

“Jeez,” Harry shudders.

“Hmm?” Louis turns around. “Something wrong?”

“Your arse,” Harry says. “It’s, like, on my dick.”

Louis dips his head down and laughs. He scrunches up both knees and wiggles his curvy backside against Harry, feeling Harry’s dick thicken and his head point right into the crease between his thighs.

“Is that better?” Louis ask.

“No…”

Louis grabs Harry’s hand to put on his hips, and nudges back against Harry just a touch more. Then he opens his thighs and reaches in to hold Harry’s big cock. With a gentle pull, he lays it in between his arse cheeks and squeezes down tight.

“Ugh,” Harry grunts. “Louis— ”

Harry sucks in a deep breath, letting out a soft scream. He pushes himself deeper between Louis’ thighs and practices fucking in and out, aware that this might leave some tender burns later. But it is worth it for now. His not-so-silent screams turn into fast pants of breathing, as he digs thumbs and fingers into Louis’ hips and thrusts quickly.

“Come on, baby.” Louis encourages. “Feels good.”

Helpfully, Louis parts his knees to tuck him in. It does feel good, warm and slippery, a dribble of Louis’ come lubricating his head. Harry twitches hard thinking about penetrating Louis one day, wondering what that might feel like, watching Louis clench around him, making all sorts of helpless, obscene come faces. But at the same time, he wants Louis to fuck him too. He wants to experience it all.

As if reading his mind, Louis pushes his arse out, so Harry’s pubes are right against them. Harry looks down to see his cock going in and out between those plump arse cheeks, the wet squelch as it draws out, the raw rubbing as it slams back in.

“Oh fuck,” Harry cries.

Holding Louis by the waist, Harry pumps his hips fast and hard, feeling the friction rub his shaft as it throbs and heats up. He hears Louis grunt softly and stroke his own messy, wet cock, covered in sticky come. Harry’s thumb digs hard enough into Louis’ skin to leave a bruise. His mouth rests on Louis’ shoulder, steaming the skin.

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry groans again, his low voice cracking.

“Come on, then,” Louis says. “Fuck me, Harry. I want it.”

Louis turns his face around. One hand grabs Harry’s hair behind his head to push his face forward. He tongues him while Harry fucks his thighs, fast and dirty, thumbs leaving indelible bruises on Louis’ hips, until he feels shots of wetness between his legs, one pulse after another. He hears Harry’s fevered grunts just like he imagined it, come shooting between his thighs, eyes furrowing shut, mouth curled prettily into an open O.

“We’re going all the way, Harry,” Louis whispers, as Harry moans loud and messy, pumping painfully and riding out his orgasm. “You and me. All the way.”

•••••

_Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?_  
_ Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?_  
_ I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it_  
_I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it_  
_ I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'_  
_ I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'_  
_I saw a white ladder all covered with water_  
_ I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken_  
_ I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children_  
_ And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard_  
_ And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall_

\- Bob Dylan

OCTOBER 20, 2015

In the hallway outside the interview rooms, Louis cups his hand around the lighter, and watches the end of the cigarette glow up. The pungent smoke rises in the air as Louis inhales. Conflicting feelings fill his mouth, tasting like too many things and nothing.

He feels his phone vibrate in his trouser pocket. The phone displays a text message from a code name, “Erectile Dysfunction.”

That’s another of Harry’s jokes. They once looked up anagrams of Simon P. Cowell and had to laugh at this: “owns come pill.” Harry made Louis change his iPhone contact for Simon to Erectile Dysfunction right then. That’s Simon to a tee, a man so insecure in his manhood, he has to remind the world he can get it up on the regular— by parading his girlfriend and son in front of paps. Oily, insecure fuckwit.

_Louis. Need a chat today._

Louis takes a long drag on the cigarette. No matter how much he despises him, Simon can wind Louis up: makes his heart beat faster, his stomach churn. It’s gotten worse over six years.

** _Anything urgent?_ **

The seconds crawl by unevenly until the reply comes.

_Hoping to touch bases with you. Make some time._

Louis stares at his phone, the text message box waiting blandly for his fingers. His hand hovers, and then he turns the phone off and shoves it into his pocket.

Whatever it is, it can wait. He’s not going to think about it, or he won’t be able to do anything else today.

A door clicks open down the hallway, and footsteps clip clop toward him. Judging by the snappy shuffle, it has to be Liam.

“Hey, Lou,” Liam greets him as he approaches. A hat is pulled down over his eyes. His jeans are sliding down his waist, his shirt tail becoming untucked. “Done with your interview?”

“Yeah, second one,” Louis answers.

Liam pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, deftly slides one out and balances it between his lips. Raising eyebrows toward Louis, he makes a lighter motion with his thumb and cupped fingers, and Louis tosses him the Honey lighter.

Louis bends one leg behind himself to lean against the wall as he watches Liam suck in air to light his cigarette. Louis’ wrist tips to one side, chin raised to exhale. Smoke is rushing through him, a smooth stream of poison. He can feel the arteries in his wrist pleasantly quicken. Louis allows himself to feel the curves in his body, to pop his hip and let his wrist dangle. There’s no reason to hide any part of himself in front of Liam. His natural mannerisms, which he’s kept so carefully guarded in front of everyone else, can relax. Liam has seen it all.

“Any questions about the baby?” Liam says between his teeth. He hands the lighter back.

Louis raises one eyebrow and quirks his head.

“‘Course there was,” he answers, his voice sharp. He tucks the lighter in his back pocket. “It’s on the bloody list.”

Liam quickly glances away. “Oi, I forget. And you? Alright? With the whole baby thing, I mean. Are you— you hanging in, mate?”

Louis forces a laugh. He takes a deep drag and exhales, watching the smoke blend into the nondescript, off-white walls, surrounding him like an indoor fog. Liam also appears to be smoking fast, taking big drags to finish it off quickly.

“‘M supposed to chat with Simon later.” Louis can feel Liam turn sharply toward him, his whole body stiffening. The air between them sparks.

“When?”

“Dunno. Just got the text.” Louis licks his lips, trying to keep the nausea out of his voice. “It’ll be before the concert tonight, I reckon.”

Liam stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. He waits to see if there’s more.

“How about you, Liam?” Louis asks instead. “You alright?”

It’s become a ritual, the boys’ asking after each other, as if by questioning, they acknowledge that there is no solution but time, no medicine for their pain but patience. As if they’re seeking mutual consolation, acting like each other’s mirrors to reflect the fact that they existed together, are still intact, are waiting, will survive.

Tonight, they’ll have to pile on the concealer to disguise the dark circles under Liam’s eyes. After Zayn left, breaking up with Sophia destroyed whatever patch of solid earth Liam was still standing on. The band was so close to the end, yet it still constantly seemed like a contest to see who would start crying in a concert first, Louis or Liam.

“Well. You know how it is,” Liam says.

They stand together, feeling the weight of their unspoken words.

Worse, during the concerts these days, Louis can feel Harry checking on him, eyeing him from the other side. He drops off a bottle of water for Louis where no one can see. He signals to the sound guys for Louis’ mic to be turned up. He turns his body so he can watch Louis on the Jumbotrons, making random walks down the ramps so he can look up when Louis is about to sing solos. He does it all instinctively, from years of silent practice, a fleetness like shadows appearing and disappearing in the moonlight.

And Louis knows that if he cracks, there’s nothing Harry will do. There’s nothing he can do. Harry will keep laughing on stage, bantering and being 1D-Harry, while Louis goes silently crazy inside.

They can do whatever they used to do behind the stage, but in front of the stage, they’re strangers. Nevertheless, Harry checking in on him makes it worse for Louis, makes their distance seem almost insurmountable, makes their silence seem more irritatingly, stupidly pointless.

They should be used to it by now. But because of their history, sometimes it gets to Louis, and it’s too much for him. He wishes it were over— the teasing of hair into artful spikes before the concert, the forty-minutes of Meet and Greet, the oily stage makeup, the warm-ups where they banter like office co-workers, rather than lovers. He wants to slide through the last months, the end so sweet and close now, to play a few more jokes with the fans, to feel their distant but fervent love.

Anyway, there are only a few more concerts to go. Today they’re in Belfast.

•••••

Simon leans back further in his chair, his feet propped on the desk, the dirt on the soles of the shoes touching the wooden surface. His image keeps cutting in and out, the WiFi in the room being somewhat dodgy.

”You should sit, Louis.” Simon waves one hand in Louis’ general direction. He sounds far away and tinny on Louis’ phone, his faint smirk barely registering on the mobile screen.

Louis is in a makeshift space just down the hall from the venue’s dressing rooms. He can hear the steady noise of work outside, footsteps coming and going, heavy equipment occasionally knocking into the walls. It’s the usual pre-concert cacophony that Louis’ learned to tune out.

“I’ll stand, thanks,” he answers, “if it’s not going to take too long.” His fingers tap the side of his jeans, desperate for a fag. He works to keep them still, tucking his hand into his pocket.

Simon frowns, and then shows his teeth. “You’re right,” he says. “Probably won’t take long. Louis, as you know, the Jungwirths are on board for the rest of the year.”

Louis scoffs, looking away.

“But the press release is all set to go, isn’t it?” he retorts, sounding too eager. His eyes flit back and forth to the phone. “The agreement’s still good?”

Simon clears his throat. Louis can tell by his pleased expression that there’s bad news. Simon looks as if he’s swallowed an entire canary nest.

“Afraid not, Louis. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Louis breathes slowly through his nostrils. His heart flutters, but his face shows nothing, not even a twitch. He won’t give Simon the satisfaction. He holds himself still despite every intuitive sense telling him otherwise.

“So… it’s been delayed?”

Simon clears his throat. He raises both feet off the desk, and sits up straight, his hands clasped in front of his chin. His face is still unreadable, poised exactly between joy and malice.

“It’s going through,” Simon says. He watches Louis like a cat does, cornering a mouse. “Sorry, lad.”

“What do you mean— ?” Has Louis misunderstood?

“It’s going through, Louis. We’ve all thought about it, and this is for the best. There’s no way to end it gracefully. Everyone in Britain and America has seen the pregnancy.”

“Pregnancy!” Louis shouts. “What pregnancy? There is no pregnancy!”

His hand drops. He paces to the far wall, hearing Simon’s monotone drift in and out of the phone in his hand. He feels sick, everything in the room waving in and out.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Louis brings the phone to his face. “We agreed, Simon. The pregnancy was for the album, but it wasn’t to go past October.”

Simon turns away and looks to his side. An unbearable silence passes while Louis waits for something — anything— to happen, for Simon to say he was only taking a piss, of course he wouldn’t go through with it. A One Direction baby might ruin the prospect of the band ever coming back together; it would ruin their dynamic. It would ruin Louis. It would separate Louis and Harry in the public eye, and maybe even beyond. It would split their fans irrevocably. They can’t. They wouldn’t.

“Sorry, Louis.” Simon turns back, his mouth slightly upturned. “It’s a bit complicated. I hope you understand. It’s really out of my hands. It’s been discussed and it’s going ahead. After all, the baby’s yours.”

Louis leans against the wall, one hand coming up to grip his hair. Out of his hands. What the hell was he saying?

“Is— ” Louis stammers, a hundred questions pounding through his head. “Do the lads know? Did you— did you tell — ” Harry. Does Harry know?

Simon glances down at a wrist watch. “We can chat tomorrow, Louis. Call me in the morning… Ah. Actually, no. I’ve got a couple of meetings in London tomorrow. So... I’ll call you? In a few days, maybe.”

“Simon, wait!” Louis’ panic leaks from his voice. “We agreed. There was an agreement. Can I talk to— ”

Even as he hears his own words, Louis knows he has lost. As improbable as time going backward, Louis can see his ties to Simon stretching out to infinity. Simon’s slight smirk holds a line that will never let Louis go, a baby tied to his future, a foreshadowing of the scandals and drama which will all follow. It will be endless.

It can’t be. It won’t be. It can’t.

Louis knows, as fast as his brain can connect the points, that this was the endpoint Simon had planned all along. It was always in the realm of possibility. Like a train following a disastrous track over a cliff, a celebrity baby scandal starts as a tendril of rumor and grows into a complete human being, a human life that doesn’t just... disappear, unlike a tabloid piece that can be corrected. A human being is hard to explain, and the longer it goes on, the more it becomes a part of Louis. Already it is inextricable.

Louis knows that Simon operates in predictable ways. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is, nor as brilliant or witty. He’s a bit of a blowhard, really. But he holds the cards for now, as Louis’ personal executioner.

Louis glances down and realizes that the connection was severed some time ago. Simon has clicked off. The phone’s blank screen stares back at him like a flat abyss. The room goes blurry on him, and Louis has to grab onto a chair to sit.

The next text notification nearly shocks him, bursting out of the darkness.

_Lou u sitting down?_

Louis stares at it for a second, frozen to the moment.

_An article saying the baby’s been born?_

He frowns and pulls his phone closer. Niall.

** _What, Neil?_ **

_An article, Instyle. Did u see it?_

Louis doesn’t react, doesn’t know how to respond. It’s too fast. He’s just gotten off the phone with Simon. Nothing makes sense. Everyone knows the timeline. Could they have— ?

_There was a headline, Lou. With a birth weight._

A screenshot shows up in text. Louis stares in disbelief. It’s a mock-up for the birth announcement with a blank space for the name. The baby’s weight has been penned in.

** _wtf_ **

Louis paces with agitation. This is classic Simon, a tabloid shot across the bow. He feeds sensational details to his media connections, to turn fantasy about the boys into pseudo-reality, fodder into fact. It hardly matters that none of it is true. It will play for days. Then a correction will be issued, generating drama for another fortnight. The tabloids create titillating publicity for One Direction, Syco Music’s last, best act.

_Lou? What does it mean_

** _F’ unbelievable_ **

Louis’ fingers tremble so much that he has to type the text three times. If Niall has seen the news, then there’s a good chance that Harry has, too. Fuck.

If only he didn’t have to do this interview. He has to find Harry, as soon as possible. And then what?

Louis thinks, have to talk to his mum. He has to find Jay, always his go-to strategist. She’ll know, she’ll counsel him.

** _Ni, talk later_ **

_Are we meeting for dinner?_

** _Later_ **

Louis glanced down at his watch. Nearly 6 PM.

•••••

“Where’s Louis?”

Harry picks up a cup to ladle the celeriac and sausage soup, courtesy of Sarah’s Kitchen. The table is spread with an abundance of good things: pan-fried duck breast, roasted beetroot, fusilli with calamari and ink, vegan risotto. Harry grabs napkins and a bottle of water, and retreats to the corner table where Niall is already eating.

“He was around earlier.” Niall’s eyes flick to Harry, and back down to his food. “Have you talked to him?”

“No, that’s why I asked,” Harry says. “It’s past 8.”

Louis hadn’t answered his text to meet for dinner, but that wasn’t unusual, since they usually met up here. Their days are crammed with promotional interviews for the upcoming album. Harry and Louis, of course, never do interviews together; instead, they compare notes at the end of the day, lazing like tired reptiles in their hotel bed.

“For that matter, where the fuck’s Liam?” Harry says, a note of annoyed anger creeping in. “Do we even have a show tonight?”

“They’ll be here soon, I reckon,” Niall says, licking yogurt off his spoon. “Give ‘em a minute.”

“Some work ethic,” Harry grumbles. He pulls a chair toward himself and plops down, hunched over the table. “How many more concerts are left?”

Right on cue, Liam hustles through the door, ripping paper tissues away from his collar. His face looks radiant, young, and beautifully rested. Apparently Lou Teasdale uses very, very expensive concealer and foundation. Liam appears flawless.

“Lads,” Liam says, stuffing a piece of garlic bread into his mouth. Glancing up, he notices their disgruntled faces. “What? Why are you both staring? Where’s Lou?”

“Uh,” Niall hesitates. “That’s what we were wondering. He’s not with you?”

Harry looks from Niall to the Liam, and then out of habit, swipes his thumb to open his phone. His texting app has 28 notifications. Harry scrolls down, then taps open Louis’ window. Nothing since the morning.

Liam’s checking his watch. “Forty-five minutes to show. I’m not saying I’m worried, but, like, I’m also not saying I’m not worried.” He crunches into an apple. “You guys know where he might’ve gone? It’s not like him to disappear.”

“Yeah, that’d be Zayn,” Niall says. Out of the corner of his eyes, Niall sees Liam wince with the mention of Zayn’s name.

Reid, one of the tour crew members, comes into the room. All three men look up expectantly, then become immediately disappointed and turn away.

“Nice greeting, arseholes,” Reid says. “I feel like Sarah’s leftovers.”

Liam’s face is conciliatory. “Sorry, mate. We’re just all wondering where Louis is. Seen him?” He glances down at his watch. “He’s a bit late.”

Reid inspects the fresh fruits on the table and, after an eternity, picks a banana. He peels and starts eating it as he says, “Yeah, that.”

They wait for him to go on, as he chews and swallows with infinite patience. Finally, he looks up to meet their stares.

“Louis’ gone, boys. Don’t know where he is. Um— I’m supposed to tell you all to expect a text?” He drops the banana peel in the trash.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Niall yells.

Reid points to their phones. “Text.” He turns to leave, as Niall gets ready to reach out and grab him by the collar.

Instead, a loud text alert has all of them hurtling toward their phones simultaneously. As he reads his text, Liam’s face is the first to scrunch in confusion. He purses his lips into a closed circle, while Niall runs over to see, and Harry jerks his leg up and down from sheer nerves.

Liam stares incredulously at the bright interface of his phone, then enunciates in his low baritone, “I’m supposed to be what?”

“You’re on the loo, it looks like,” Reid says, glancing at Liam’s face. “Says here you’re suppose to have the runs tonight. Diarrhea.”

“But I’m not sick,” Liam says, disbelieving. “I don’t have diarrhea.”

“What the fuck,” Harry spits out.

Liam suddenly comprehends. His eyes roll up and he grimaces. “It means concert’s been cancelled,” he concludes. “Says here they’re going to make a statement that I’ve got a bug. I’m the fall guy for… whatever this bullshit is. Again. Looks like concert’s scrapped tonight, boys.”

Niall inhales sharply, a high-pitched gasp caught at the very end. He’s struggling not to hyperventilate, but unconsciously turns and starts pacing in a tight circle.

“_InStyle_,” Niall says. “The article…. agh.”

Harry’s face is a maze of incomprehension. One Direction simply does not cancel concerts. Harry has vomited during a concert, and he and Niall have recently hobbled around in foot casts on stage. All of them have gone on with sleep deprivation, burnt-out voices, colds, fevers, flus, hung over, with splitting headaches, singing on caffeine and amphetamines. It takes near death to cancel a concert, and no one’s died… unless…

Harry looks up to meet Niall’s pinched blue eyes. Niall is breathing quickly and deeply. They’re both thinking the same thing.

“Where’s— ” Harry starts. “Louis? Niall, what did you just say?”

Niall answers, “I saw an article earlier, some bullshit mock-up.”

“And?” Harry demands.

“Said the baby was born.” Niall gulps. “Gave a birth weight and everything. Louis went batshit.”

“What!” Harry’s voice explodes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Fuck!” Liam interjects. He runs a hand through his perfectly hair-sprayed hair, nearly getting his hand stuck. He withdraws it awkwardly and chews a lip. “Shit! I just remembered.”

The boys stare at him wordlessly, their faces full of uncertainty.

Liam hesitates. His lip blanches from where he’s chewed it hard, and then floods back blood crimson. “There was a— this afternoon, Louis had a— ”

“Liam!” Harry shouts. “What happened?”

“A meeting,” Liam answers. “Louis had a meeting with Simon this afternoon.”

They look at one another, all knowing the implications but none wanting to say it. For several seconds, Niall demolishes a fingernail, chewing it fiercely and glancing nervously from Harry to Liam. Liam looks almost apologetic, and Harry is near murderous. A beat later, Harry turns on his heels.

“Harry!” Niall yells after him. “Where are you going?”

Harry keeps walking darkly out of the room without acknowledging him, as if he hears nothing. Meanwhile Niall and Liam stare at each other. They can hear the loud bass beats of the pre-concert music pumping through the stadium walls, warming up the crowd. There are ten thousand people out there, waiting to see one of One Direction’s last shows together.

“God,” Niall asks. “What the fuck’s happening?”

Liam turns away and feigns calm. “Damned if I know, mate. It’s all Simon, you know it is. God only knows where Louis’ gone to.”

He glances up expectantly at Niall, who nudges his arm with his right hand. Niall’s left hand is in his mouth; Liam knows it’s a nervous habit. Niall sometimes chews his guitar calluses until they start bleeding. Sometimes he puts so much pressure on his bad knee, it dislocates. Yes, Niall has a talent for self-mutilation. Tonight he could chew off a couple of fingers.

Liam meets his pleading eyes. He doesn’t need to say anything.

“God. Damn.” Liam sighs. “Harry’s already gone after him.” Niall pulls a corner of his lips, dubious. “Nialler, I am one man. And today, I am a bloody weak man with diarrhea, you realize. What do you want me to do?” Niall chuckles slightly hysterically. Liam drops his head into his hand as Niall nudges him with increasing pressure, blue eyes blazing. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Lima,” Niall said. “You have to go get him. You know you do. It’s you, or nobody.”

“Do I look like a babysitter?” Liam replies. “No, scratch that. Bad choice of words. Niall, this is Belfast. Where do we even start?” Liam stares at Niall morosely, nearly all of his humor drained. “Where, Niall?”

Niall shrugs and laughs. “If I know one thing about the Irish, it’s that blood and family go above everything. We are family, aren’t we? They’ll help us out, the good Irish people out there.”

“What, a couple of millionaire boybanders like us?” Liam slings an arm around Niall’s shoulder. “Sure, they’re all dying to volunteer. I always knew that Louis would kill me one day. I just didn’t expect it so soon.” He glances at Niall. “I don’t suppose you’ll come with?”

“Nah, you’d be the man,” Niall says. “It’s a job for Batman, innit. I’ll stay at the hotel in case he comes back. Hold down the fort, ya know, take a bullet for the team.”

“You martyr.” Liam looks toward the door, desperately hoping for Harry and Louis to walk through. Finally, he slaps his side and straightens up.

Liam says, wearily, “We were so fucking close, babe. Literally only two more months.”

“Yeah, right?” Niall guffaws. “Liam James Payne, you just keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you’ll even believe it.”

•••••

SUMMER 2013

Harry heard the door click open, and then close with a soft, metallic ping. He lay face down in the middle of the king sized bed, in his big American hotel room in the middle of a big country. Like small countries, they could drive for hours without crossing state lines.

America had so many crazy toys and huge highways and people so brutally frank in their appetite; it was a black hole of need. Everything was consumed at lightning speed.

Which made it great for a pop band.

Harry was getting used to thousands of young girls screaming his name, even when he just stepped out for a breather, to toss a football with the crew, or run a few laps. They popped out of the woodwork. Their eyes were very, very shiny.

Their excited buzz contrasted with the hotel's insulated silence, and the jittery anxiety of rehearsal.

There were eyes and ears everywhere, watching him. Watching them. And now, they’ve flown her here. First day, they paraded them in front of fans shouting couples goals! Eleanor! Louis!

In his mouth, Harry could taste the throw-up from earlier. It was bitter and sour, a special diet for the heartbroken. He was fed up with crying, with being the one who has to watch. It would be nice, he thought cruelly, to break Louis’ heart a little. One more time. It would be nice to see him fucked up, wretched, the way he looked when he was with Taylor. Nice to see him shrivel up with red eyes and sunken cheeks.

“H.” He heard his name called.

Harry replied without turning, “Go away.”

He heard heavy footsteps shuffle toward him. American hotel rooms had deadened floors, always thickly carpeted: no reverb. It’s what made them good enough to record in— not a proper studio, but shitty makeshift booths that get auto-tuned and processed later.

“You should learn to use it,” Julian said. “You know? Really channel it into music.”

Harry put a pillow over his head and held it down with both hands. He didn’t need a lecture from Julian right now.

Julian Bunetta always managed to make it about work, coaxing one more tune out of him. But that was his job, wasn’t it? Crafting three-minute love letters to young girls. Maybe along the way, he taught the boys some songwriting, too, but number-one pop songs were foremost in his mind. Like Savan before him, Julian was all hooks, modulation, bridge, outro. And royalties.

“Julian,” Harry mumbled into the mattress. “Not now, yeah?”

“Dude,” Julian said. He sat down next to Harry, put a hand on his back. “When, then?”

Harry didn’t move, except to lift his face so he could breathe better. For all intents and purposes, he could have been comatose. He wanted Julian to move his hand, get up, and leave. He wanted to go home to Holmes Chapel and share a brioche with Anne, and play with the cat. He wanted Anne to wrap him up in blankets like a baby burrito.

Julian picked up the keyboard lying against the far wall and set it down on the desk, clearing away a tea cup with a darkened, concentrated drop at the bottom. 

It was Harry’s cup. Louis’ would have milk in it. 

Julian sighed. The music business was a Bitch, and these British kids were just baby squirrels dug out of a warm nest, running around with innocent excitement before getting swatted down by a mean, hairy paw. Julian knew how it was. These boys were going to get chewed up and spat out, with maybe Harry pegged for long term success and the rest of the kids settling for a thick wad of cash. If they weren’t happy with that, well, tough titties. Lots of people were unhappy with a lot less success. 

There was only one wrinkle, however, and it was a hell of a ravine. Julian had worked with the band for a year, and _ fuck _ if Harry and Louis weren’t fucking obvious with each other. Nothing anyone said or did made any fucking difference. At the beginning, Julian had been told to keep them separated, and not to let them write together alone— as if _ that _ would stop them. He could see the looming disaster like seeing _ The Titanic _ for the tenth time. He knew the ship was going down, he knew who would survive, but it didn’t make it easier, not even for someone like him.

A long time ago, Julian made it a personal rule not to interfere in things like that, or to care about it too much. Shit happens, man. They were in the big time now, not playing in some backwoods suburban mall. One Direction was the _ one _ in a million. But man, Louis and Harry were in for some real, life-changing hurting. They just couldn’t see it yet. It was down the road, the raw, fucking heartbreak, waiting for them. 

Julian flipped the keyboard on and played a few chords. 

“Hey, Harry,” he said. “Wanna do a quickie, just to throw one away? What do you say, man.”

Harry lay moodily. His chin dug into the sheets at an uncomfortable angle, right where his snowmobiling scar still ached. Pins shot into his teeth. Real cuts involved real blood, but emotional cuts were bloodier and deeper. 

Julian fooled around with arpeggios on the keyboard, trying to cheer him up. They were upbeat chords, happy, dancing notes. After a while, Harry realized Julian was playing “You’re the One that I Want,” from _ Grease, _which he and Louis would jokingly sing to each other because they could get away with it. As Julian was playing the chords from the bass up, Harry hummed a tune as slow as a funeral against the chords. He glared at Julian while doing so. 

“Hang on,” Julian said. “Gimme that again.” 

Harry frowned, annoyed that he had managed to please Julian despite being pissed-off. 

“Haz,” Julian coaxed him. “I think I hear something… it’s right at the tip of my brain. You’ll like it too, I promise. C’mon. Sing it again, man.” 

Harry made him wait a minute before he sang, a three-note tune like “You’re the One That I Want,” but with the melody leading down instead of up. He had to admit, it was a bloody good hook. Instead of hope, his song was full of sadness and regret, as violently blue as he felt. It was his heart in chorus form. 

“No, like this,” Julian played the notes on the keyboard. “_Trying to piece together what it’s like to have a heartbreak. _What do you think?” 

_ “Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat,” _ Harry improvised.

Julian messed around with the chords, adding in some blues notes and tossing in a sixth. Instead of a Broadway closer, the tune became a wistful McCartney ballad, chasing a lover in a familiar place where they used to go together. This kid was pretty fucking good, Julian had to admit, if he could come up with things like this off the cuff. With his looks, Harry was the whole package, the real deal. 

“How about this for a verse?” Julian said. 

Julian picked up a guitar and played the opening chords from McCartney’s _ Listen to What the Man Said. _

_“Late at night, same blue lights,”_ he sang, strumming._ “Something something something with the moon so bright.” _

Harry sat up. 

“Not now, Julian,” he growled. 

Harry ran his hands through his hair, making a stormy bird’s nest of his famous curls. Later Lou Teasdale would have a challenge trying to brush it out and style it. She usually spent the longest time on Louis’ hair, but Harry’s needed more product to hold the soft waves against gravity. Now the leftover product in Harry’s hair made his distress look angry and crazy— a cartoon character’s head. 

Harry paced back and forth like a caged animal. Patiently and silently, Julian watched this futile energy play out. He wondered how long it was going to last this time. They had an album to write, with or without Harry. It was better, with. 

“‘M going out,” Harry said. 

Picking up his wallet and hotel key, Harry put his head down and left the room. Julian swiped his phone open. He clicked on the voice notes app and laid down the chords he just played. It was definitely something promising. Harry just had to dig into his wounds to write it. 

  
  
•••••


End file.
